


100 Ways To Say I Love You

by ladyknightley



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-02 02:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6547555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyknightley/pseuds/ladyknightley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off a series of 100 prompts, here's 100 ways to say I love you, featuring many many many characters and pairings in the Harry Potter universe. See individual chapters for various warnings :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "One More Chapter" - Ron & Rose

**Author's Note:**

> I should say off the bat that I do not own any Harry Potter characters, and the prompt list isn't mine, either - it's courtesy of blondetins (dot tumblr dot com). However, if you would like to stop by my own tumblr and request a specific pairing (romantic or platonic!) and a prompt, please do feel free! I'm going to try to only write a pair of characters once but...we'll see. Okay, here we go!

“...and such protections have kept the staff and students of Hogwarts safe for many generations,” he finishes. “And as well they should,” he adds looking seriously at his daughter, who blinks up at him, gurgling. “Or we’d have all sorts of Dark Wizards attacking the school left right and centre, and then where would we be? Up the creek without a paddle, that’s where.”

Rose splutters, sounding startlingly like she’s blowing a raspberry at him. “Quite,” nods her father. “Now, d’you think you might go to sleep now, little baby? Or am I going to have to read you your mother’s favourite subject: apparition into and out of the school grounds?”

Rose wriggles about in the crib, like she’s settling herself in for a good bit. “Very well,” Ron says. He clears his throat. “A History of Transportation To and From the School Site,” he reads. “A mighty fine sub-heading, if ever there was one.” Rose gurgles in agreement.

“Apparition within Hogwarts’ grounds has been impossible since the early days of the school. Records suggest that the Founders were unwilling to risk entry of any potentially dangerous visitors, and so placed wards around the castle with protections of their own devising. However—and this is the important bit, Rosie, your Mum’ll test you on this later,” he says in an aside, and he swears she understands, because there’s a touch of Hermione straightening up, readying herself for a difficult question from a teacher in the way her shoulders stiffen ever so slightly, and her eyes follow him as he finds his place in the book again.

“However, it has always been possible for the current Headmaster or mistress of the school to lift these wards for their own purposes. This has, on occasion, produced some unintended consequences. In 1643, whilst Headmaster Derril Pyworthy lifted the wards to allow for a visit from the current Minister for Magic, a number of students took advantage of his action to introduce to the school a herd of Howling Bibblecrumps, which—a herd of _what_? Did Luna edit this book?!”

Rose sneezed. “Bless you,” he says automatically, still staring at the book. Maybe it’s the darkness, stopping him seeing correctly. He’ll be borrowing Harry’s glasses next. Or maybe the lateness of the hour sending him slightly loopy; it’s nearly—

“Ron? It’s three-thirty in the morning,” Hermione’s voice says softly, and he looks up to find his wife standing in the doorway. “You know you should just wake me if she needs feeding, it’s not a problem.” The dark circles under her eyes and the weight she’s lost suggest otherwise, but he senses that this isn’t the time to bring that up.

“She’s not hungry,” he says instead. “And she doesn’t need changing, and she’s not ill or running a fever, and she’s not even crying. She just...won’t sleep.”

“She does that,” Hermione says. “Your mother says it’s normal, that some babies are just like that. She said when she had Charlie, she was only managing about two hours a night because he hardly slept, but he’s turned out fine. But...I’m worried. What if I’m doing something wrong, and—”

“Hermione, love,” he says, shushing her. Rose has been quiet, but Hermione’s voice, growing louder and louder, is starting to disturb her, and she grizzles slightly. Hermione immediately reaches towards her, but Ron puts out an arm, stopping her from picking her up. “Shush now,” he soothes. “Hush.”

He’s not sure if it’s his daughter or his wife he’s most trying to quieten, but it works on both. Rose’s soft cries stop, and Hermione slumps against him slightly. “Sit down by me,” he says softly. “Come on. There’s nothing you’re doing wrong. Rose just...doesn’t sleep.”

“But what if—”

“No what ifs,” he says firmly. “Some babies are just little buggers like that.” Hermione snorts softly, then sits down in the chair next to him, snuggling into his side. She yawns hugely.

“What were you reading to her?” she asks, once the yawn has passed. In response, he simply holds up the book, and she squints at its title in the dark. “Oh. _Oh_ ,” she says, once she’s read it.

“Well, it’s her mother’s favourite,” he says. “Got to indoctrinate her, eh?” She shoves him, then rearranges herself so she’s lying against him, summoning a spare blanket with a flick of her wand.

“Carry on, then,” she murmurs. He finds his place and keeps reading, but within two minutes she’s out like a light, a dead weight against him. He doesn’t begrudge her the sleep; she has certainly earned it, doing the late feeds night after night after night. Twenty minutes after that, Rose is looking sleepy, too, but her eyes are still open. Ron’s are starting to hurt with the effort of staying awake, his voice is hoarse from reading aloud for hours. Every time he tries to stop, however, Rose begins to grizzle again, and he can take a hint.

“One more chapter?” he asks, and she coos in response. “Very well. Ahem. _Hogwarts, A History._ Chapter seven: the development of a curriculum. Are you comfortable? Then we’ll begin.”

 


	2. “Take my jacket, it’s cold outside.” - Arthur & Ginny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Drabbles". I know. Oh well...

12) “Take my jacket, it’s cold outside.” Arthur & Ginny

“And where do you think you’re going, at this time of night?”

Ginny blinks. Dad doesn’t shout and yell like Mum does when she’s mad, and he doesn’t _sound_ angry, just interested in her response, but she _was_ supposed to be in bed two and a half hours ago, and you can never really tell, with Dad. “To get some water?” she says quickly, and Dad’s face clears.

“Ah, of course,” he says, and she breathes out in relief. Really, it’s _so_ easy to pull the wool over his eyes. so silly. “Water. Now, do tell me Ginny dear, what about getting water requires shin guards? And are those elbow pads, as well?”

_Bus-ted._

“Um,” she says, squirming. She could try making something up again—she is good at inventing stories—but Dad doesn’t seem mad _yet_. Lying could push him over the edge. “I was going to practise flying,” she says, settling on telling the truth.

“At half-eleven at night?” Dad asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Ron and Fred an’ George and the rest won’t let me,” she says mulishly. “They always say that they don’t have time to teach me to fly, so I can’t play Quidditch with them. And all they do is play Quidditch and I want to play too! But they say girls aren’t good enough to play, ’cause they’re not strong enough. So I thought, if I learn to fly in secret and to catch the ball and stuff, I could play one day and surprise them with how good I am and _that’ll_ show ’em!” She sounds much fiercer by the time she gets to the end of her explanation, standing as she is with her legs apart, hands planted firmly on her hips. Dad coughs slightly, and looks away briefly before turning back to her.

“I see,” he says gravely. “Now, I do understand why you feel like you do, but it’s still not very good that you’re sneaking out when your Mum and I think you’re safe and tucked up in bed,  is it?”

“No...” she agrees reluctantly. “But I’m only going in the garden, so I’m not in any danger from strangers or anything like that, and I always wear my shin pads! And a helmet, when I can find one.”  

“Well, if you’re wearing _shin pads_...” Dad sighs. Ginny bites her lip, and tries to look innocent. She’s glad it was Dad who caught her. Mum would’ve shouted and made her do extra chores for a week, because she doesn’t understand how important Quidditch is. Dad doesn’t understand how important Quidditch is, either, but he _does_ know what it’s like to really, really, really love something, and that’s why she always listens really hard when he tells her about all those strange muggle things he likes so much. She doesn’t like them, but it’s always really nice when people listen to her talk about things.

“Listen, Ginny,” he says seriously. “It’s not very good of you to sneak around at night like this. I understand that you want to learn to fly, but flying is dangerous unless you’re properly supervised. I don’t want you doing this again, in case you get hurt and Mummy and I don’t know where to find you, okay?”

“Okay,” she says. “I promise.” And she’s certainly not crossing her fingers behind her back when she says the words...

“But, listen,” he says, “your brothers aren’t very nice to not let you play with them. That’s not fair, is it?” Hope rises in her chest, and she shakes her head vehemently. “They’re also completely wrong to say that girls can’t play Quidditch, and on the weekend I’ll prove it to you. We’ll go and see the Holyhead Harpies play their match against Caerphilly, just you and me, okay?”

Her eyes widen. “Really?!”

“I think I should be able to get us some tickets,” he promises. “And—”

“Thank you Daddy!” she says gleefully, throwing herself at him. The shin pads knock against his own knees, hard enough to make him _oof_ , but she doesn’t notice, squeezing him tight. “I promise not to sneak out again,” she says seriously when she draws back, and she means it this time. “But I promise I’m _very_ good at flying, and I wouldn’t be in any danger of hurting myself.”

“I’ve no doubt,” says Dad. “But _no_.” She tries not to look too crestfallen—she is getting a trip (without her brothers!) to see the Holyhead Harpies play on the weekend—but it’s hard. She’d been so looking forward to flying...

“You know,” Dad says thoughtfully after a moment. “It’s late, but I just have to dash off a quick report for Perkins, before I can go to bed myself...” Ginny’s heart starts to beat faster. “It should only take about ten minutes, but I’m sure if you were to go out for a quick whizz about the garden whilst I jot down some notes—just a quick one, mind you, ten minutes max—that could be a little secret between us, hmm?”

She’s about to squeal with delight, then realises that wouldn’t be very secretive of her. “Definitely a secret,” she whispers instead, nodding her head with such force it almost hurts.

“Take my cloak, though,” he says. “It’s cold out, tonight.”

* * *

Ginny lands in the back garden, stretching, then removes the Disillusionment Charm. It’s about thirty miles, as the broom flies, between her home with Harry in Godric’s Hollow and her daughter’s house, and she flies over a few times a week for a cup of tea and a catch up with her mother. As long as she’s hidden from any muggles who might happen to be glancing skywards, there’s nothing to stop her. She much prefers it to apparating, and these days she tends not to have too many urgent meetings to get to, so she can afford to take her time and see the sights, so to speak.

She stashes her broom in the shed, and is just closing up when a sound makes her look to her left, up towards the orchard. Dad is standing there, between two trees, wearing his pyjamas and a look of slightly confusion. Her heart sinks as she makes her way over to him.

“Hello, Dad!” she calls out, as cheerfully as she can. “How’s it going?”

“Mollywobbles?” he asks, sounding frail.

“No, Dad, its Ginny,” she says, striding over. She hopes that once she gets close enough to him, he’ll be able to see that it’s his daughter, but she’s touching his arm now, and he just shrinks back from her.

“Molly? Where’s...the office, I’m...”

Ginny swallows. “Molly’s inside,” she says clearly, because the Healers have said it’s important not to try to correct him too much, just explain what they’re doing and get him to safety as quickly as possible. “Shall we go and find her?”

“Yes...” he replies vaguely.

“Come with me, then,” she says, linking her arm through his. They walk slowly back towards the house, and Ginny resists the urge to speed up—Mum must’ve noticed he’s gone missing again, and be getting worried.

“I’m going to work,” he tells her, and she nods.

“Where do you work?” she asks.

“In London, for the Ministry. I’m—” he breaks off, stumbling slightly as he trips on a broken branch. Ginny’s got too tight a hold on him to allow him to fall over entirely, but by the time the incident is over and he’s stable again—mere seconds, really—his eyes seem clearer as he realises who is holding onto his arm.

“Ginny! When did you get here?” he asks, and she’s sure now that he’s back with her. Temporarily, at least.

“Just a moment ago,” she explains. “I flew down, and I was just putting my broom away in the shed when I saw you down by the orchard. You said you were going to work.”

He looks down at his pyjamas rather ruefully. “Perhaps not,” he says, and Ginny notices the goosebumps on his arms. “Here,” she says, quickly shrugging off her own cloak. “Take mine. It’s cold outside, today.”

“I know,” he agrees, “you wouldn’t think it was April, would you? Although, the weather was lovely last weekend, wasn’t it?” It’s a relief to hear him say these things: any proof that he knows what’s going on, where he is, what happened three days ago, is more than welcome.

She helps him on with her cloak. “I was going,” he says suddenly, “to feed the chickens. Your mother asked me to. But I think I bypassed the coop and...I got confused. I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to be doing, so I just...kept going. And then...I don’t remember.”

It sounds like he can’t have been gone more than a few moments, so Mum probably isn’t worried, but she’s glad she caught him before he apparated off to London. The thought of him splinching himself, or stuck halfway between home and the Ministry with no one knowing where he is, makes her feel ill. “Well, no harm done now, eh?” she says. They start off towards the house again.

“Molly would worry so, if she knew,” he says, and Ginny wraps her cloak tighter around him where it’s started to slip off one shoulder. “I don’t want to upset her. I’m just a bit forgetful, that’s all, nothing to worry about. You won’t tell her, will you?”

“It’ll be our secret,” she says, and hopes he won’t notice her crossing her fingers behind her back. Dad smiles.

Ginny supresses a sigh. She will have to tell Mum, of course, and the rest of the family, and the Healers. Dad’s getting worse and worse, but at least for now he does keep coming back to them. For now, they can still share a secret.

And a cloak.


	3. "Happy Birthday!" - Angelina, Alicia and Katie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! No Weasleys!

“ _Happy Birthday dear Kay-teee, happy birthday to you_!”

She laughs at their theatrics: Alicia twirling around, streamers erupting from her wand, Angelina bowing and presenting her with a cake—“Quick, hurry up and blow out the candles, or I’ll end up dropping it and setting your bedclothes alight!”—and they both clap and cheer with such enthusiasm when she’s managed it, it’s like they’re back on the Quidditch pitch and she’s scored the winning goal. It takes her back, and for a moment she expects Fred and George and Harry and Oliver to appear through the door, too, but they don’t. It’s just Angelina and Alicia, and she watches as they set out neatly wrapped gifts on the table at the foot of the bed and blow up balloons, talking and laughing like they’re back in the dormitories again.

She remembers being intimidated by them at first; they were only one school year above her, but at twelve, that seemed such a huge difference. She was tiny and plain and awkward; Angelina—almost two actual years older than her—was tall and commanding, capable of keeping even the Weasley twins in line, and Alicia was the prettiest, daintiest girl in the whole of Gryffindor, but she managed to counter this with such ferocious fierceness on the pitch that no one underestimated her for more than a few seconds. It would have been easy for them to look down on her, to act like this second-year upstart of a Chaser wasn’t worthy of their time, but they never did. From their first practise, they treated her like their equal on the pitch, and off it, they soon became the big sisters she never had.

So it seems silly to pick faults in their kindness and fun, especially knowing the trouble they will likely have gone to, to organise this whole thing, but when they ask if she wants to do cake or presents first, she can’t help but ask, “You know today isn’t my birthday, right?”

“Of course, you idiot,” Angelina says, rolling her eyes. “But you kind of missed yours, remember?”

“So obviously we had to do something about that,” Alicia beams. “It’s six months today since your real birthday, so why not celebrate it today, now that you’re, you know...”

“Actually awake,” finishes Angelina. “I always think that consciousness adds a little something to any celebration.”

“Says the girl who ended _her_ eighteenth birthday celebrations with her head down the toilet in the Three Broomsti—oh, I’m sorry,” Alicia’s expression switches from teasing to guilt so quickly Katie thinks she might get whiplash. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s fine,” she says. “You can say it; I don’t mind talking about what happened. Not that I really remember anything much. Earlier that day, Hogsmeade with Leanne—fine. Then nothing until I woke up in hospital. I didn’t even know the whole thing happened at the Three Broomsticks until my Mum told me.”

“Not anything?” asks Alicia, wide-eyed.

“Literally nothing,” she replies. “And I suppose it’s a good thing, because the pain was so bad they were worried I might have permanent brain damage. So I’m rather glad I can’t recall it at all.”

“If I catch the person who did this to you...” Angelina trails off from her threat, wringing an invisible neck, whilst Alicia reaches over and holds her hand.

“If there’s _anything_ we can do that will make it better...” she says, and Katie squeezes her hand back.

“Like I say, I don’t remember the worst bits. And I feel better with each day that goes by. I can walk up and down the corridor outside now without feeling tired at all; this time last week, I could only manage to the door of my room and back without having to sit down,” she says. “I’m improving!”

“Well, you’ll be back on a broom playing Quidditch in no time,” Alicia says cheerfully.

“And don’t think we’ll go easy on you, Bell, just because you’ve been ‘cursed’,” Angelina adds, making finger quotes around the word and rolling her eyes like she doesn’t believe her.

“I’d expect nothing less,” Katie laughs. “But you know what’s been medically proven to aid recovery? Cake!”

“As a Healer-in-Training, I approve,” Alicia says, reaching for the paper plates they’ve bought. She busies herself cutting it, whilst Angelina walks over and gently affixes a party hat to her head, carefully brushing her hands over the fine soft hair covering her head.

“It’s growing back then?” she asks, and Katie nods.

“I’m having three lots of hair-replenishing potions a day now, but it’s worth it. They are working,” she says. “I know it’s stupid—they shaved my head for the operation and I’d probably have died if I hadn’t had it, and it _is_ just hair—but that’s been the worst of it, for me.”

“It’s not stupid.” Angelina shakes her head. “It’s not _just_ hair.”

“I’m just so glad it’s finally starting to grow back,” she says. “They said it wouldn’t at first, and...” She shrugs, still feeling silly. It’s just hair. She nearly _died_. What’s a bit of baldness, compared to living?

“Well, if it doesn’t, me and Alicia would get our heads shaved to match yours,” declares Angelina.

“Ooh, yes!” squeals Alicia, handing over a slice of cake. “And then we could all go wig shopping together!” Angelina mimes sticking her fingers down her throat, behind her back, and Katie laughs and if a few tears slip out, too—well, they’re all friends here.

They’ve seen her through worse.


	4. "Call me if you need anything" - Hannah/Neville

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: some (non-graphic) references to violence in this one.

 

“Of course,” Neville says, folding and unfolding the piece of parchment in his hands, “St. Mungo’s is an absolutely wonderful hospital. They’ll have him sorted out in no time.”

“Of course they will,” she agrees, removing the breakfast he hasn’t eaten from the table. “You should try and drink your tea, at least.”

“And I’m sure he must be much better already, because when I enquired about visiting, they were perfectly happy to—”

“Neville,” she says sharply, and he freezes, looking up at her in alarm. She tries to tone down her voice, tries to sound soothing and kind and like his behaviour for the past day and a half hasn’t been terribly concerning. “I’m going to take this off you,” she says, tugging gently at the piece of parchment he’s now started to tear up, “because this is Natalie Jenkins’s essay on the properties of Gurdyroot. And I don’t think she’d want it ripped to shreds, hmm? At least, not before you’ve marked it.”

It takes a moment for his brain to process her words—being up all night will do that, she knows—but when he does, he immediately thrusts the parchment at her and pushes himself up from the table, rushing off to the window, then the doorway, then the sofa along the far wall. The flat above the Leaky Cauldron is small, but she’s always thought of it as cosy. This morning, with him pacing around, it feels like a cage.

“I’m a terrible teacher.” The words burst out of him before she can think of anything else to say, and her heart wrenches.

She reaches out for him, starting to reassure him on impulse, but he flings out an arm to stop her getting close. “I am,” he says wildly. “I nearly tore up that girl’s homework! I should be banned!”

“With all due respect to Natalie Jenkins,” Hannah says, aiming for levity, “that essay is terrible and looks as though it was written in five minutes before her lesson.” (In pink ink, and scented with a horrible cheap perfume, but this is not, perhaps, the moment for laughing at Professor Longbottom’s status as the most crushed on member of the Hogwarts’ faculty.) “I don’t think anyone could blame you for tearing it up. In my non-professional opinion, of course.” Before she’s even got to the end of the sentence, she can tell that he hasn’t listened to a word she’s just said.

“Hannah,” Neville says, dropping down on to the sofa. “A boy nearly died in my class. That would have been my fault. I would have caused a child to _die_.” She’s never been the best comic, but a joke has never got that reaction before now. Probably time for some drastic action, she thinks.

“Oh, don’t be such a _bloody_ idiot!” she snaps, and his head shoots up from his hands. He gapes at her.

“You can close that mouth, or you’ll be catching flies in it!” she says tartly. “Honestly, Neville, I’m sick of this. _I_ think you’re just feeling sorry for yourself!” For the past thirty six hours, ever since she received the almost-incoherent floo call from him, she’s been treating him so gently it’s like he’s been made of porcelain, accepting every moment of self-recrimination as par for the course, but this has been going on for _too long_. She can’t be _nice_ forever. Nice won’t fix him.

He splutters. “Hannah, a child under my care suffered—”

“A terrible accident,” she cuts him off. “A one-in-a-million fluke that happened to end badly. You had no idea that Gregory Hallam was allergic to Gillyweed, because neither did he, nor his parents, nor anyone else. If you had, you obviously wouldn’t have allowed him near it, but you didn’t, so it wasn’t your fault. It was just an accident. And another thing—” she adds, holding up a hand to stem any protest he might be about to make. “Accident or not, if you hadn’t been on hand to deal with the aftermath, he _would_ have died. Your skills prevented him from asphyxiating. Madam Pomfrey said she couldn’t have performed the necessary magic better herself. And I tell you something, with all due respect to Professor Sprout, I don’t know if she would have known the right spells to use quickly enough. You saved his life, Neville. Now, pull yourself together and act like it!”

“Professor Sprout would’ve known the right spells,” he mutters, after a moment.

“What’s the point in speculating?” she shrugs. “She might, she might not. You did. The kid will be fine. In fact—he’ll spend a few days being fussed over in hospital, then come back an absolute hero to the rest of the second years for all his dramatics. He’ll love it!”

“You’re right,” Neville sighs, but he still looks troubled, and Hannah sighs inwardly.

“What,” she says, “is it that is bothering you?”

There’s a pause. A very long pause. But Hannah is nothing if not patient.

“When I took the job,” he says eventually, “it was hard, at first, going back to school after everything that happened in our seventh year. I know it was ages ago now, but I couldn’t go past the dungeons without hearing the screams of everyone the Carrows tortured and...it was horrible.”

“Of course,” Hannah says gently. “That’s perfectly normal.”

“But I used to get through it,” he continues, “by thinking that that was all in the past. And that as long as I was alive, no one else at the school would have to hear those sounds. And yesterday...Gregory was in such pain, and all the other kids in the class were screaming in terror and it just...it took me back to that. And I feel so weak and stupid, because I’ve tried so hard to move on from that year and every time I think I have, that I’m over it...” He shrugs. “This was just an accident, a fluke, whatever. But it brought me straight back.”

“That’s perfectly normal, Neville,” she says again. “And it’s fine that you feel that way. But if you ever call yourself weak or stupid because of it again, you will have me to answer to. _Do you understand me_?”

He meets her eyes, then manages a small—but genuine—smile. “Received and understood,” he says. She smiles back.

“Honestly,” he adds, giving the tiniest of laughs, “that was _such_ a teacher voice. You want to take my classes for the rest of this week?”

“Absolutely not,” she says. “But I can come with you to the hospital, if you would like? You said that you’d planned to visit him at nine this morning, after he’d had his breakfast, and it’s five to now. You should get going.”

“No, it’s okay,” Neville replies, standing up. “I know you’re busy. I’ll be off, then.” He walks over and pecks her on the lips, and she smoothes out imagined creases in his shirt front with her hands. He reaches towards the container of floo powder on the mantelpiece, but she stops him just as he’s about to take a handful.

“Neville,” she says, “call me if you need anything, okay? At the hospital, at school...I’m just a fireplace away.”

“Okay,” he replies, “I will.”


	5. "Here, drink this. You'll feel better" - Hermione and Ginny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was requested by diva-gonzo, who wanted seventh (ish) year Hermione and Ginny. I feel this should come with some kind of trigger warning for exams, though, so consider yourself alerted!

She hears her before she sees her; she’s got her bossy voice on again and she’s doing her usual play-by-play of each exam question. She’s talking to—talking _at_ —Tabitha, one of the girls from Ginny’s year. Ginny and Tabitha have never exactly been bosom buddies, but they are friendly, so she feels like she has some kind of moral obligation to save her from Hermione.

She’d practically feel a moral obligation to save Draco Malfoy from Hermione in her current state, though, so that’s not saying much.

“Hi ladies,” she says, linking her arm through Hermione’s. “Thank Merlin that’s over, right?”

“I know,” sighs Tabitha. “Transfiguration is my absolute worst subject. I’ll be lucky to scrape a T!”

“Oh, no, I’m sure that’s not true!” Ginny replies. “You always feel like you’ve done worse than you actually have, right?”

“Actually, as long as you get above eighteen and a half percent overall, which, when you include your practical mark, should leave you with at least—”

“Tab, d’you mind if I steal Hermione for a bit?” Ginny says with a polite smile, starting to drag her towards the portrait hole.

Tabitha looks like someone’s just awarded her the _Daily Prophet’s_ prize draw. “Go ahead!”

Ginny steers Hermione through the Common Room, out of the portrait hole, down all the stairs and corridors to the Entrance Hall, then out through the grounds, past the Quidditch Pitch and down to the Great Lake, where she conjures a blanket and pats the space next to her, beginning to rummage around in her satchel. The entire time, Hermione does not stop talking about the exam they’ve both just come out of. It’s only been half an hour since they finished, and Ginny’s already all but forgotten her own answers to the questions, but she feels like she could probably, at this point, fairly effectively plagiarise Hermione’s own paper.

“Anyway, I did think that it was a bit unfair to have two questions on human-to-animal Transfiguration on one paper, but the first was fairly straightforward I suppose, whereas question eleven was a much more—”

“Hermione,” Ginny says very firmly. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

Hermione accepts the bottle of Butterbeer Ginny hands to her with a slight frown. “No, I’m actually feeling pretty good,” she says. “The topics I revised most fully all came up, and my extended essay—”

“Hermione!” Ginny says. “Drink this. _I_ will feel better.” Hermione squints at her.

“You see,” she explains, “whilst your lips are on that bottle, and when you mouth is full of Butterbeer, and when you pause to swallow, you cannot talk. And because you cannot talk, I do not have to redo the Transfiguration exam I literally just took. So. Drink up!”

She cheers-es her bottle against Hermione’s, takes a huge sip, then sighs. Hermione eyes her for a moment, before bursting out laughing. “You know, Ron said something similar to me once,” she says. “I think it was something along the lines of ‘it’s bad enough we have to do an exam once, but I am certainly not going to do it twice so please shut up because I don’t care what you put on question 14 b’.”

“My brother isn’t often very sharp, but on this occasion I think we can all agree that he does have his moments of infinite wisdom,” allows Ginny.

“That’s not fair, he’s very clever!” says Hermione, springing to his defence at once.

“I _know_ ,” she replies, sighing. All her revision seems to have pushed what remains of Hermione’s sense of humour out of her brain. “Look,” Ginny says, changing tack. “It’s Thursday afternoon, and we don’t have another exam until Monday morning. A whole day off from NEWTs tomorrow! So, let’s just enjoy our Butterbeers and the fact that it’s a nice day and not think about all the exams we have next week— _or_ replay the ones we’ve already done, okay?”

“Fine,” Hermione agrees. “I suppose you’re right. And I’m sorry for being such a pain lately. I just...get stressed about exams.”

“ _Really_?!” Ginny says, overacting astonishment until Hermione shoves her sideways off the blanket. “Honestly, though, Hermione,” she adds, holding her gaze. “ _Everyone_ gets stressed about exams. Not just you.”

“Oh, I know,” Hermione says quickly. “Just the other day, I was talking to Padma Patil, and she said—”

“Hermione,” interrupts Ginny. “No offence, but if you carry on like you have been doing, accosting people and forcing them to go over and over and over their revision plans, and asking do they think the goblin rebellion of 1403 will come up on Tuesday’s paper, and what did they put for the extended essay question on that Charms paper, people will—”

“Not like me very much?” Hermione asks ruefully.

“I was going to go for hex you, but probably that too,” Ginny says.

“I’m sorry, I really am,” she says. “I’ve always struggled around exam time, but it’s not been this bad before. I don’t know if it’s because NEWTs are, you know, _it_ —the last big exam—or because I’m not having to stop my revising every thirty seconds to stop Harry and Ron running off on some hair-brained plan to prevent a wannabe Death Eater attacking the school, or stop Voldemort rising again or something. I always used to get stressed about exams before, but that did help me keep things in perspective. It’s hard to panic so much about Cheering Charms or how to mix a Forgetfulness Potion when you’ve got...well, you know.”

Ginny sips her Butterbeer thoughtfully. “So, basically, what we need is another Dark Lord to come back and attack us, and me to be the only person who can stop him, planning to rush off headlong into danger to save the world, so you can hold me back instead of panicking over the Herbology practical on Monday.”

“Yes, that sounds entirely reasonable,” Hermione nods.

“I think I’ve even got a lip-liner in my bag somewhere that I can use to draw a lightning-bolt scar on my forehead,” she says, “or is that too cliché? Should I go for another shape?”

“Ask Luna, she’s much more artistic than me,” says Hermione.

They drink their Butterbeer in companionable silence for a few moments, the only sound the lapping of the lake on the shore.

“How about,” Ginny asks carefully, “we say that you are absolutely not allowed to discuss exams beyond what is normal with anyone in the entire school, except me, and I can be your outlet for all your stress? That way you might still have one or two other friends by the time school’s out, and I won’t have to supervise detention for anyone who hexes you when you’re at your most annoying?”

Hermione smiles sheepishly. “I hear what you’re saying,” she says, “and I’ll try to...tone it down a bit. But that offer doesn’t sound much fun for you, so I—”

“I reserve the right to clobber you around the head with a Beater’s bat and/or drag you off to Madam Pomfrey for a calming draught if you get too much,” Ginny says. “But if you just need to, you know, let off some steam, you can do that with me. I’ll listen to you prattle on about question 14b or whatever it is. That’s what friends are for. You can pay me back later.”

Hermione reaches over and squeezes her hand. “Thank you,” she says. “That is very kind of you.” She says it sincerely, but Ginny just shrugs.

“It’s no big deal.”

“Maybe not to you,” Hermione replies. “Look. We’ve... _I’ve_...only got to survive until a week on Wednesday, then it’s all over. I reckon I can do it, with you. And, when it’s over, I’m going to buy you all the Butterbeer in the _world_ ,” she says with feeling, holding up a half-drunk bottle.

Ginny raises her own, after swigging the last few dregs. “When the exams are over,” she answers, “you can buy me a bottle of Firewhiskey.”

“Oh, I don’t—”

“To _begin_ with.”    


	6. "I picked these for you" - Fleur & Gabrielle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had an anonymous request on tumblr to do this prompt as a Bill/Fleur piece. But because I have several other requests for this pairing—all of which I want to write, of course!—I’ve cheated slightly and made this about sisterly-love between Fleur and Gabrielle. You might find a certain other character in this, though ;)

“Here,” Gabrielle says, dropping a heap of daisies in her lap. “I picked these for you.”

Fleur looks up from the seemingly endless thank you notes she’s writing, glances briefly at her little sister, then frowns down at the small pile of daisies. She’s wearing a blue dress decorated with tiny, perfect flowers, and the real ones look rather pathetic compared with the synthetic loveliness of the pattern. “Thank you?” she says, laughing slightly. “But my bouquet was decided months ago—I am having Sweet Williams, of course, and—”

“They’re for you to make a daisy chain with,” Gabrielle explains.

“I am a little busy right now,” she replies, gesturing to her writing materials. She’s brought them outside, along with a plank of wood, because The Burrow has become somewhat stifling, in more ways than one. The notes will wait—she’s not _that_ busy—but she does want some time to herself, and doing something ostensibly useful is the only way to get it, unless she wants to be absorbed into her mother and almost mother-in-law’s flurry of housewifery.

“No, you’re not,” Gabrielle states, screwing the lid onto her bottle of ink. “I need you to make me a daisy chain.”

“Why?” Fleur asks, placing her quill to one side for a moment.

“Because I need to be made prettier so that Harry Potter will notice me and fall in love with me and then we can get married, too,” Gabrielle replies, and Fleur can hear the unspoken _duh!_ without her sister needing to add anything else.

There are so many things she could say in response to this that she has no idea where to start. So she goes with perhaps the most obvious. “Why can’t you make a daisy chain yourself?”

Gabrielle simply holds up her hands, showing her the nails bitten down to the quick. “Ah,” says Fleur. “Of course. Well, then.” She  waves her wand, banishing her writing materials to the bedroom she’s commandeered as her own, and sets to, slicing the stems of the flowers open with her thumbnail before passing them to her sister so she can thread them through each other. “So,” she says, after about ten daisies have been attached together, “Harry Potter, hmm?”

“He’s _gorgeous_ ,” sighs Gabrielle, and Fleur, remembering her own first crush, also aged eleven, fights very hard to keep a straight face.

“Don’t you think he’s a little old for you?” she asks.

“Same age difference between me and him as there is between you and _your_ husband,” Gabrielle replies smugly.

“He’s not my husband yet, and that’s completely different.” The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them, or register how much they make her sound like her own mother. “I’m sorry,” she says at once. “That was silly of me.” Gabrielle nods. “But have you not thought that it might be a little difficult for you to pursue a relationship with him whilst you live in France, usually, and he is stuck here in England?”

“Yes, well, he can come and live with me at home, like you moved to here,” Gabrielle says. “And besides—he _should_ come to France. It is not safe for him here. In France, I could protect him.”

“Why do you say that?” Fleur asks sharply, pushing away the image of her eleven year old baby sister standing in front of some of the people she has fought before it makes her ill.

“I’m not stupid,” says Gabrielle, rolling her eyes. “Everyone thinks I’m a kid, but I’m not—I’m _eleven_. And I’m also not deaf. Mother and father talk all the time about what’s going on over here with Lord...Lord...”

“You-Know-Who,” Fleur says quickly, realising as she does so that she, too, has fallen into this habit.

“They think I can’t hear them,” Gabrielle says, “but I can! I know that’s why Bill was attacked!”

“It wasn’t You-Know-Who directly who attacked him,” she says.

“I know that, too,” Gabrielle says dismissively. “It was a werewolf. But a werewolf-man. He wasn’t transformed. That means—”

“I know what it means!” Fleur snaps, more sharply than she’d intended. She accidentally tears the head off one of the daisies, and it falls to the ground. They both stare at it, lying bright white against the deep green of the grass.

“Anyway,” says Gabrielle. “It’s not safe, here. Bill is proof of that.” There’s something quite belligerent in the look she’s giving her, and Fleur is confused. Gabrielle’s been distant since they all arrived, barely speaking to her sister and leaving the room entirely when Bill was around. Mother had told her not to worry, that Gabby was probably just a combination of jealous and missing her sister, but Fleur wasn’t convinced. When they’d first been introduced, Gabrielle had adored Bill, as had the rest of her family. But now she could hardly stand to look at him, and—

The penny drops.

“Gabrielle, do you think that Bill is a werewolf now?” Fleur asks. “Because he’s not, he categorically isn’t. You needn’t be scared of him—”

“I’m not scared of him!” Gabrielle says, but her tone is too defensive. Fleur’s heart sinks. It isn’t that she hadn’t expected this sort of reaction from people who saw Bill’s scars and put two and two together to make five, but she truly hadn’t thought she’d get it from her own sister.

“Gabrielle,” she says, as gently as she can, “Bill is still the same person. He hasn’t changed—well, he likes raw meat more, and he can sometimes get some pains in his scars. But he’s the same person he was when you first met him and liked him.”

“But I don’t like his scars!” Gabrielle says.

“Oh, darling,” she smiles sadly, “neither do I.”

“Then why are you still marrying him?” asks Gabrielle.

“Because I love him.”

Gabrielle gives a snort of derision. “I,” she says importantly, “am going to marry someone really really handsome. Like Harry Potter.”

“He has a scar, too, you know,” she points out, trying to lighten the mood.

“Oh I know,” says Gabrielle. “But his is _sexy_. Bill’s scars are too frightening.”

“They’re not that bad,” Fleur protests feebly. Truly, it doesn’t matter to her what he looks like—she knows he’s still the same person inside. But if this is how someone who knows the truth reacts, how can she hope that strangers won’t think the same way, too? Already, people cross the road to avoid them when they’re out, and even if they win this war tomorrow, she knows that that won’t change. There will still be this prejudice that surrounds him, and no matter how much she loves him, she can’t alter that.

“When I get married,” Gabrielle says, “I’m going to live in a huge house with a swimming pool and a stables and I’m going to have horses and dogs and a parrot—”

“A parrot?”

“Mother won’t let me have one! So I will have one when I get married, and also I’m going to eat ice cream for breakfast every single day, and...” Fleur lets her sister prattle on and on, thinking as she does about her own tiny cottage by the sea, and how she wouldn’t change it for anything. Once, she’d dreamed of marrying a rich, handsome man and living in a castle, becoming the princess she had been born to be. But things change, and she hopes Gabrielle’s dreams will, too.

She hopes she’s still around to buy her the parrot, though.

“There you are!”

Bill’s sudden appearance makes them both jump, but Gabrielle shrinks back in alarm, pressing herself up against her sister. Fleur throws an arm around her shoulders, holding her tight, so it looks like they’re just embracing as sisters will, and if Bill thinks anything else, his face doesn’t betray it. “What have you been up to? I was beginning to think you’d kidnapped your sister and we were going to have to send out a search party for you both!” He’s speaking more slowly than he would normally, and Fleur can see Gabrielle working hard to keep up.

“I ’ave not kidnapped Fleur,” she says after a moment. “But if I did, you should not find me. I am _zhat good_.” She eyes him fiercely, daring him to disagree, and Bill holds his hands up in surrender.

“Oh, I have no doubt,” he replies solemnly.

When she glances down briefly, he looks across at Fleur and gives her the tiniest of winks. “So, what have you two been up to?”

“We are making the daisy chain,” says Gabrielle, gesturing. “It ees to make me prettier for—” She breaks off suddenly, looking at Fleur in a panic.

“For the wedding, of course,” Fleur says easily, exchanging a glance with Bill. He nods.

“I see,” he says, picking up the daisies that Gabrielle has threaded so far. Already, they’re hanging limply; another half hour or so and they’ll be completely shrivelled. Bill hums thoughtfully. “This is a bit rubbish, isn’t it?” he asks.

She can sense Gabrielle’s hurt immediately, and realises as she does so that her protectiveness of her sister supersedes even her love for Bill; she opens her mouth to say something to him, but—

“Did Fleur make this?” he asks, leaning in conspiratorially. Gabrielle giggles, delighted to be in on the joke.

“Yes!” she says triumphantly. “She did!”

Bill tuts. “Well,” he sighs. “This will simply never do. Hmm. Shall we go and find something much, much better than anything your sister could do?”

“Yes!” Gabrielle says, leaping to her feet. Bill makes a show of groaning and staggering as he gets up, and Gabrielle laughs still harder. He beckons her to follow him; Fleur stays where she is, sat leaning against a tree. They don’t go far: he’s led her to a patch of Marguerites, growing on the edge of the garden as wildflowers, and cuts some for her with his wand. He uses magic to weave them into a much more impressive crown than any daisy chain she could create, and when it’s done, Gabrielle places it on her head and dances around the garden in delight.

Bill walks back over to her, presenting her with a remaining flower. “For you, my lady,” he says, bowing. She rolls her eyes, trying not to laugh.

Gabrielle dances over to them, and takes the flower from her hand, tucking it behind her ear. “There,” she says. “We are matching! But,” she adds. “I am better.”

“Of course,” Fleur says. Bill sinks down next to her and she leans against him, and Gabrielle demands that they both watch the dance she has prepared for the wedding.

“Do you think she’s ready to have a brother?” Bill asks, as they both watch her frolic. She knows what he’s really asking.

“I think,” she says carefully, “that she will be just fine. Anuzzer adult to wrap around ’er finger? She will love it.” Bill snorts. “And if she is not...well, she does not ’ave much time to get used to it.”

“Oh?” he asks, raising one eyebrow and making her stomach swoops. “And why is that?”

“Because,” she says loftily. “We are getting married tomorrow!” She holds her serious expression for a moment longer, before her face breaks into the biggest smile she think she might be capable of. Bill laughs, leaning in to kiss her.

“Urgh!” They break apart at Gabrielle’s squeal of disgust, both still grinning.

“I agree,” Ginny, who has just appeared in the garden, broomstick in hand, says firmly. She and Gabrielle share a look of mutual revulsion, which makes Bill laugh again.

“Oh no, a double act!” he groans. Fleur keeps her eyes on her sister, but Ginny offers her a friendly shrug and Gabrielle gives a tentative grin back. Satisfied, she turns back to Bill.

“’Owever shall we survive it?” she says loudly, before reaching round and wrapping her arms around him, pulling him down on top of her. And to the sound of Ginny and Gabrielle’s squeals, they kiss and kiss and kiss on the grass.  


	7. "I'll do that for you" - Harry and Hagrid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't not :) (Those of you from the West Country, please excuse my terrible rendering of Hagrid's accent!)

_3 rd May, 1998_

“There you are!” Ron appears, carrying a plate piled high with sandwiches. “You’ve been avoiding the Great Hall, huh?” he adds, as Harry practically dives on the food. Lunchtime was hours ago.

“Too many people,” he says through a mouthful of ham sandwich.

“I know,” Ron nods. “I’m thinking of growing a large moustache, and going about with my cloak collar turned up so no one will recognise me. Might have to borrow your glasses, too.”

Harry manages a laugh. “Hermione will love that, I’m sure.” The tips of Ron’s ears turn pink, and he just grins, before taking a ham sandwich of his own. “Where is Hermione, anyway?”

“Hospital wing with Ginny,” Ron says, before swallowing hastily at Harry’s look of alarm. “They’re fine,” he says. “They’ve just gone along to help where they can—rolling bandages and scrubbing bedpans and all that glamorous stuff. St. Mungo’s are sending as many Healers as they can spare, but still all hands on deck.”

Harry sighs. “At least they get to do something useful,” he says, trying not to sound bitter. There’s still so much to do, but he’s all but mobbed any time he goes anywhere without his Invisibility Cloak, and Professor McGonagall had kindly but firmly insisted that he might enjoy a quiet rest by the Great Lake whilst they got on with organising everything in the school. He’d offer to help the girls in the Hospital Wing, but the Healers have a hard enough job without hordes of his admirers getting underfoot and causing trouble.

Ron just nods. “Bill and the others are still checking out home, but it’s looking good,” he says. “A few curses and whatnot, but it’s standing. Hopefully we can get back there tonight.”

“That’d be good,” says Harry. “Bit more peaceful, at any rate.”

“Yeah,” Ron says. “Look, I’m gonna leave you with these,” he gestures to the sandwiches. “Mum and Dad and George are about to meet with the Minsitry people about...about Fred’s...about what to do,” he finishes. “And I said I’d come along.”

“Want company?” Harry asks, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“No—best just us, you know?” Ron says. “Thanks, though. I’ll let you know when we’re done.”

“Course,” nods Harry, as he stands up. “Ron?” He looks over. “If there’s anything, anything I can do at all to—”

“I know mate,” says Ron, offering him a small smile. “Thanks.” Harry watches as he makes his way up to the castle, being stopped every few moments by small groups of people who want to congratulate him, or commiserate with him. It’s impossible, from this distance, to tell which is which.

He pushes the plate of sandwiches aside, realising this. He feels like he needs to get away from here, get away from it all, but as well as promising McGonagall and Kinsley Shacklebolt people that he’ll steer clear of people trying to work, he’s also supposed to remain within the school grounds. Who knows what—or who—could be waiting for him outside of their safety? So he’s effectively trapped.

He wishes he could talk to Ginny. She’d know what to do, to alleviate this feeling, but she’s busy helping in the Hospital Wing, and if he was to turn up there, he’d have to leave as soon as he was discovered, or else he—and his entourage—would just be in the way of those who need help the most.

He smiles a little, remembering Professor McGonagall’s face on finding a reporter from the _Prophet_ trying to disguise herself amongst the House Elves this morning in order to get an interview with him. Then he remembers Dobby, again, and the smiles vanishes. He finds himself walking along, strolling by the lake as if he’s back at school and just finished with Quidditch practise, and he can pretend, for a moment, that his biggest concern is only how to persuade Hermione to read through his Potions essay. All of that seems like it happened both five minutes and several centuries ago.

He comes across Hagrid’s hut without realising it, but that’s partially because it’s no longer there, just a smoking footprint in the ground. His eyes focus, and he realises that the large mass he can see isn’t just some debris, but Hagrid himself, rootling through the remains. “I’ll do that,” he says quickly, heading forwards.

Hagrid looks up, startled, but his face breaks into a smile on seeing Harry. “How’s it going?” he asks cheerfully, standing up from the smouldering embers of his home. Fang barks a hello, and Harry pats his head.

“What happened here?” he asks.

“Death Eaters,” Hagrid says. “Burnt it down. Fortunately, no one was inside at the time, we were all fighting, weren’t we Fang, boy?” The dog barks again. “Got ter clear out what remains,” Hagrid continues, “salvage what we can. Then Professor McGonagall says we can work on rebuilding it. That’ll be good, eh?” He tugs on something large and rectangular, half-buried under a beam.

“I’ll do that for you,” Harry insists, pushing him aside. It makes little sense: even if he hadn’t spent the past six months on the run, scavenging food where he can and surviving on only a few hours’ sleep a night, Hagrid would still be stronger. He’s half-giant, after all. But Hagrid carried him out of the Forest, and Harry cannot imagine what that must feel like. He couldn’t have done the same if it had been Ron who was killed, or Ginny, or Hermione, or a hundred other people, but Hagrid still managed it despite believing him to be dead. The least he can do is help him with his home now.

“Nah, s’alright,” Hagrid says cheerfully. “Got most of what I want, anyway. This is the most important thing.” He nods towards the (very large) shoebox he’s unearthed. “S’got all my important things inside. Look,” he says, holding out a picture Harry recognises. It’s Hagrid as child, already huge, with his father on his shoulders.

“It’s a lovely photo,” he says, holding it for a moment, then passing it back.

“It is,” Hagrid agrees. “I’m glad it all survived. But even it hadn’t, it’s all in here though, eh?” He raps at his chest with a fist. “It’s what counts, int’it?”

“It is,” Harry says, reaching down to a colourful object that turns out to be an alarm clock. Strange, what survives.

“Better than nothing,” Hagrid says, and Harry thinks of his own photo album and silently agrees.

For around half an hour, they work in near silence, digging Hagrid’s belongings out of the remains of his home. Some things are damaged beyond repair, but a surprising amount is salvageable. It would probably make more sense to summon the items by magic—the pink umbrella, of course, has survived—but, like digging Dobby’s grave, it’s curiously satisfying to do it by hand. No one comes down to disturb them, and Harry is able to do something useful, a feeling he’s still getting used to.

“Here, Harry,” Hagrid says after a while, sitting down on an upturned stump outside his house to catch his breath. He sounds deathly serious, and Harry straightens up at once, expecting a comment about Fred, or Lupin or—God, he hasn’t even thought about Grawp! Did he survive? Is Hagrid mourning, too? Hagrid leans towards him, and he finds himself holding his breath.

“How ’bout that dragon, eh?”

Harry bursts out laughing. It sounds oddly loud, but he finds he doesn’t mind. “She was in pretty terrible shape,” he replies, when he’s caught his breath. “It’s terrible, really.”

“It isn’t half,” agrees Hagrid, sobering also. “But _he’s_ projected to make a full recovery. Professor McGonagall put me in charge of him, least until we can find some handlers to take him away.” His chest swells proudly. “We’ll probably ask Charlie Weasley, but...”

They exchange glances. “I’m glad the dragon’s going to be okay, though,” Harry says after a moment, and it’s true. There’s been so much death and destruction, it’s nice that one story ends happily. “Where is he now?”

“Up in the mountains, with Grawp,” Hagrid says. “He’s doing a good job of caring for him, but I’ve told him— _no riding_. I still can’t believe you got to do that.”

“It was an experience,” Harry agrees. “I don’t know if I’ll be repeating it, though.”

“Well, I can imagine you’ve had a fair bit of excitement over the past few days,” Hagrid says. “A bit of quiet wouldn’t do you no harm.”

“Over the past few _years_ , I think,” Harry replies. “But yes, you’re right. I should probably stop joyriding dragons.”

“I reckon you’ll be alright, now, though,” says Hagrid thoughtfully. “They’re making good progress rounding up all the Death Eaters, You-Know-Who is dead...and you’re still here! Can’t be all bad, can it?”

“I wish my parents were here to see that,” he says.

He doesn’t even realise the thought’s in his mind until it’s out of his mouth, and then he finds himself dwelling on his mother’s expression when she walked him to his death, his father’s promise to stay until the very end. He was so lucky—lucky not to die, lucky that no more of his friends were killed or injured, lucky in so many other ways—but he still wants more. He wants _them_.

“I reckon, if they were, they’d be so proud of you,” Hagrid says eventually. “I’m proud enough just to know you.” He gets to his feet with a slight groan, and comes to stand next to Harry, staring at the remains of his kitchen table and chairs as though they’re the most fascinating thing in the world whilst Harry wipes at his eyes.

“I’m proud,” Harry says, and his voice cracks, so he clears his throat and starts again. “I’m proud to know you. Proud to call you my friend.”

“Anyone would’ve carried you out of there,” Hagrid says gruffly. “Anyone on the right side, at any rate.”

“Maybe,” Harry shrugs. “But I wouldn’t’ve wanted anyone else to.”

Hagrid squeezes his shoulder, before pulling his usual tablecloth sized hanky out of his pocket and blowing his nose with a sound like a foghorn. “I’d offer it ter you,” he says after a moment. “But, er...” Harry gives a watery laugh.

“Ah!” Hagrid exclaims after a moment, reaching for something. “Look at that! Me kettle!” He holds it aloft. “Cup o’ tea?”

“As long as there’s no rock buns,” Harry says quickly.

“Probably about time you supplied some cake, eh?” chuckles Hagrid.

Harry grins. “I can do that for you,” he says.


	8. "Pull over. Let me drive for a while" - Ted/Andromeda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by the lovely Emily (shunpiked) :)

She winces, rubbing at the crick in her neck before opening her eyes. It’s dark in the car, the orange glow from an occasional streetlamp the only light, and she squints over at Ted. He’s got the radio on low, and it keeps fading in and out, a cheerful voice announcing bands in between bursts of static, but he taps along to some imagined beat on the steering wheel anyway.

“Where are we?” she asks. Her voice is husky and raw from the shouting earlier, and she imagines that under other circumstances it would sound sexy. Rather less so when they’ve been stuck in a car together for six hours.

“Passed through Coventry half an hour ago,” he replies. “Which is good, I wanted to see the back of it before we stopped for the night. We’re nearly in Nuneaton—my cousin Bert lives there, I told you earlier? I called him when we were at Watford Gap, he said he’d be happy to put us up for one day. Well. Night.”

“Mmm,” she says, eyes still full of sleep. “What time’s it?”

“Eleven thirty,” he tells her. “Oh, bugger.”

“What is it?” she asks, suddenly alert. She sits up properly.

“S’alright,” he says, sighing slightly. “I just think we missed the turn, that’s all. I’m not sure...it’s alright,” he adds, glancing back over at her. “I’ll just get off the bypass at the next exit, and either turn around, or carry on from there. We’ll make it; Bert gave me good directions.”

“Well, when we get there, pull over,” she says. “Let me drive for a while.”

“Nah, it’s fine!” Ted says.

“I mean it,” she replies. “You’ve been driving for six hours, it’s not safe.”

“I’ll be fine,” Ted says. “Bert says he’s only about twenty minutes from the main road, so we’ll be there by midnight at the absolute latest. I can drive for another half hour. And besides, you only passed your test this morning.”

“With _one_ minor,” she says smugly.

“You must’ve had a good teacher,” is all he says in response.

She smiles. “Can’t think who _that_ would be!”

“I’m an excellent—oh, sodding hell, that’s the turn!” he says, suddenly veering across several lanes and pulling onto the exit. Somewhere behind them someone’s laying on the horn, but she turns around and checks through the rear window, and everything seems fine. “All good?” he asks, slowing for the traffic lights.

“All good,” she confirms, turning back. “Although, my suitcase has fallen off the backseat because of your erratic driving. Honestly, all that thought I put in to packing neatly!” She tuts at him, at her most haughty, and he just laughs.

“You’ve got everything you need, though?” he checks, as they pull away again.

“Bit late now if I haven’t, hmm?” she says lightly, tracing circles on the window. He looks like he’s working up to asking something serious, so she tries to head him off. “Are you quite sure you don’t want me to drive? Or at least navigate?”

“Actually, a bit of map reading wouldn’t go amiss.” He pulls over into an empty layby, and between Bert’s directions and an old A-Z she uncovers in the glovebox, they quickly come up with a route. They’re about fifteen minutes from a bed and clean sheets, maybe a cup of tea as well, and the prospect has never sounded so inviting.

“It’s not this left, it’s the next one,” she says, seeing him slow down for the wrong road once they get going again.

“Cheers,” he says. And then, before she can reply, “It’s not too late to turn around, you know.” She doesn’t say anything, the only sound the wheels on the road and the DJ introducing the next song. “I said—”

“I think,” she says carefully, “that it might be a little late for that. It’s almost midnight, after all.”

“You know I don’t mean—”

“Oh, Sandie Shaw.” She reaches for the dial on the radio, turning the volume up. “I think she’s just _marvellous_.”

“Me, too,” Ted says, turning it back down again. “But right now, I’d rather not. Listen. It’s not too late. We can get to Bert’s, have a good night’s kip, get a good breakfast in in the morning, then you can go back to your parents’. You can apparate down there in seconds, you don’t need to drive all that way! Then we can—”

“Ted,” she says firmly. “I _can’t_.”

“I know things feel bad now, but—”

“That’s it!” she says suddenly, sitting up. “That was our turn!” Ted throws the car into reverse, turns off, then pulls over, coming to a sudden stop with a jolt. They’re the only car on the road at this late hour, but any of her luggage that had remained on the backseat has now been thrown into the footwell and she bites back a sigh. She can hear him breathing heavily, and closes her eyes tightly. Today hasn’t exactly been a picnic for him, either. She should remember that.

Somewhere, a dog barks.

“Look,” she says gently. “I know that today has been...” Ted makes a noise in the back of his throat, then a radio jingle plays, incongruously cheerful. She waits for it to pass—it gives her time to think about what she might say, which is more than she had earlier. “Today has been a little...challenging, for everyone,” she attempts. “I know that you—”

She’s interrupted, then, by Ted laughing. She glances right, and catches sight of him in the orange glow of the streetlamps on this suburban road. He’s stuffed his fist in his mouth, and is shaking with not at all well-supressed giggles. “I’m sorry!” he gasps. “I’m...it’s...!” The laughter hits again, and it makes the corners of her own lips twitch upwards. She concentrates on the music playing: Bob Dylan, she’s picked up enough from being with Ted to identify that.

She can do quite a lot of things, these days, thanks to Ted.

In the driver’s seat, he pulls himself together. “I’m sorry,” he says, his tone overly courteous, formal. “I was rather amused by you referring to everything that’s happened today as ‘a little challenging’.” She throws him a look. “Oh, come on, it’s not like you’ve ever been known for your understatements. Let’s see now. It started this morning, when I picked you up in secret and offered to take you to breakfast, but you said no, you were too nervous to eat anything—”

“And I was!” she replies, indignant. “I had to take my driver’s licence—without magic! We didn’t even have a car until I was fourteen, because my parents don’t believe in muggle contraptions, but—”

“But they still exist, whether they’re believed in or not,” Ted says. “And besides, you still passed your test with a better score than me, only you _still_ turned down my offer of a meal, because—”

“I had to inform my parents of my success, only unfortunately Narcissa got there before me, and had already told them that I had not, as they had instructed stopped seeing that—”

“Bleepity bleep muggle boy, as I believe they put it, and I would’ve said the words only Mam always says such language is—”

“And it, frankly, was rude and rather uncalled for, but I suppose it did give me a chance to tell them how _exactly_ I felt about you, and the fact that I wouldn’t be doing as they said, and really the muggle driving test was only part of that—”

“And you were straightforward, if nothing else. I mean, there was no misunderstanding what you were saying to them—”

“And I’m glad about that, because this has been going on _long enough_. It’s about time they gave me an ultimatum.”

“But still,” Ted says soberly as she tosses her hair. “They said: me, or them. And you chose me.”

“Well, of course,” she says. “Because you would never make me choose.”

He smiles. “Be that as it may, I do think ‘you have two minutes to gather whatever you may require from your rooms, take it now then never darken our doorstep again’ was a little much. I mean, it’s 1969, not the dark ages.”

“I’m only glad that school ended only last week and that I’m far too lazy to have unpacked yet,” she replies. “I’ve a trunk full of seven years’ of Potions textbooks and more Slytherin ties than you can shake a stick at in your boot; I’m sure both will see us right.”

“We can always go back, to get what you need,” Ted offers.

“I don’t really think so,” she says, letting him believe she doesn't want to because she’s obstinate and stubborn and won’t back down. Truth be told, she’s rather afraid of what her parents might do to him. The Blacks have never exactly been strangers to Dark Magic. Instead, she surveys the belongings she did manage to grab before they left: everything she now owns is inside this car.

Aside from the as-yet-unpacked school trunk, there are some useful things—a set of truly hideous earrings from Aunt Walburga, that will probably fetch a pretty penny if she pawns them and a photo album, full of precious memories—but far too few items of genuine use. Almost all of the clothes in the trunk are part of her school uniform; her wardrobe now consists of those, and the clothes she stands up in. Thank goodness Ted’s mother is good with the needle...

“Anyway,” Ted says, drawing her out of her reverie. He doesn’t add anything to this, so after a moment, she shrugs at him.

“Anyway,” she repeats. “We should find your cousin’s house.” She draws the map to her, studying it again. There are several spells she could use, she knows, but it seems more honest to do it the muggle way. Her fingers traces the roads on the paper for a moment, until his hand lands on top of hers, squeezing it tightly.

“I don’t think we’re far away,” he says, as she squeezes back.

“That’s good,” she says. “We’ve a long drive ahead of us tomorrow, too, so the more sleep we get, the better.”

“Indeed,” says Ted. “All the way to Middlesbrough. And don’t worry, I’ll let you behind the wheel then.”

She can see her own face light up at this, reflected in the light on the windscreen. “Really?!”

“Course!” he replies. “You drive, I’ll apparate.” She turns away in a huff, and he laughs. “Come on,” he says, “let’s get going.”

She gives his hand one more squeeze. “Let’s.”


	9. "Go back to sleep" - Bill and Dominique

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for perquisitesofinfamy, who requested this prompt/characters :)

She thinks she’s got away with it. She closes the back door with no sound whatsoever, removes her heels and tiptoes across the hallway in near total silence, but then—

“Go back to sleep,” Dad murmurs at her from the sofa. She winces. _Busted_.

“Sure,” she murmurs back. “Just getting some water...” She hears Dad shift about, but he doesn’t reply, and so she thinks, once again, that she’s got away with it until—

“Dominique? Is that you?”

“No, it’s Victoire!” she tries, and she hears him snort. She stops trying to creep down the hallway, stands in the doorway to the living room, heels in hand, and watches as Dad flicks his wand at the lights until they glow softly. He sits upright, looking at her sternly, and she’s suddenly very aware of how much she smells of smoke and the red wine stain on her dress. And that’s annoying—she _hates_ red wine, she’s not her mother after all, but her best friend is a sloppy-drunk, and she can write off another item of clothing thanks to her, unless Grandma Weasley can work her magic with the cleaning charms. But right now, it’s nearly three hours past her curfew and she thinks that Dad isn’t going to care too much about all that.

“What time is it?” he asks, sounding much more awake.

“Half-past three,” she replies, cringing. Honestly, she’s _seventeen_. Of age. An _adult_. And she has a _curfew_.

“And what time did we ask you to be home by?”

“One,” she sighs, “but look, I’m—”

“Seventeen, I know,” Dad says. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

She blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Did you have a good night?” he asks, ignoring this. Slowly, she nods, unsure if it’s a trick question. One false move and she’ll probably be grounded for the rest of the summer holiday. “Oh, good,” he says, sounding genuinely pleased. “I had a great time, summer after sixth year. I think I spent about five minutes of it at Gran and Grandad’s house, but hey. It’s good to know some things don’t change.”

She nods again, because, really, what _can_ she say to this? “And you’re definitely better than your sister at sneaking back in. She used to make an _awful_ racket.”

Dominique snorts. “You still heard me, though,” she points out.

Dad points to his ears. “Supersonic hearing,” he says gravely.

“Super-wolfy hearing,” she says, finally realising why he’s downstairs on the sofa, rather than in bed. She should’ve spotted the full moon—she’s been outside most of the night, after all. “Is the pain bad, this month?” she asks.

“Not really,” he replies. “Bit of a twinge in the old scars, but it’s not bad, this month. Just got a bit of insomnia, that’s all, so I thought I’d come down here to give your poor mother some rest. She doesn’t need me tossing and turning all night, keeping her awake.”

“I bet she’s already been down eleventy-billion times to check up on you, though,” she says. It was the recurring theme of her childhood: holding Victoire’s hand as they stood at the top of the stairs whilst Maman crept down at all hours every full moon, checking on their father. He wasn’t a werewolf, they had been told as soon as they were old enough to understand what those words meant, but he had been attacked by one during the war, and that meant that he was sometimes a bit poorly on the full moon. As she got older, she learnt that “a bit poorly” could mean anything from a touch of insomnia to moans of pain so incoherent and awful that she would’ve been terrified if her mother hadn’t been there with a reassuring smile to tell them it would all be okay in the morning.

And she’d always been right.

“Twice, but yes,” he grins. “Now, young lady,” he adds, voice turning mock-stern again. “Have you been drinking?!”

“Just a couple of beers, and that was hours ago,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And I certainly wasn’t going to have any more than that; the toilet facilities were _so_ questionable.”

“Truly, you are your mother’s daughter,” he says, grinning at the snobbish way her nose wrinkles. “But: you need a glass of water inside you before you go to bed. No arguments! Go and put your pyjamas on, and I’ll sort it for you.”

She does as she’s told, and when she gets back into the living room she finds not just the water glass but a plate of biscuits, too. “I don’t have the munchies,” she says, rolling her eyes again.

“Just wanted to be sure,” Dad says. “I can take them away though, that’s not—”

“Well, I’ll just have _one_ ,” she concedes, reaching for the plate. They are chocolate-chip, after all. Dad pats the sofa, and she sits down next to him, biscuit in one hand and water in the other. He throws the blanket over her legs as she sips her water. “Honestly, this is such terrible parenting,” she jokes.

“It is?” Dad asks. “Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Underage daughter sneaks home hours past curfew, smelling of cigarettes and alcohol, father catches her in the act, asks to be caught up on all the gossip.”

“It wasn’t quite like that,” Dad laughs, “but if you do want me to go full Uncle Percy on you, I can.” She shudders. “I thought so,” he says, and they both laugh. Neither of them speak as she finishes her water.

“Listen,” Dad says, when she reaches down to place the glass on the floor and pull the blanket around her more tightly. “When I was young—”

“Back in the stone age, I know,” she says, snuggling further into the sofa.

“Oi! But yes, back in ye olden times, when I went out in my pantaloons to drink grog and listen to the court jester as we danced to a harpsichord—”

“I think that was about twenty-five historical periods you just squashed into one, but okay—”

“The point _is_ ,” Dad says seriously, “I went out and had fun and did maybe a few daft things, but no stupid things. So as long as you’re doing the same...well, I’d be a hypocrite to stop you, wouldn’t I?”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“You’re seventeen,” he shrugs. “It’s totally normal to go out with your friends and have fun in the summer. Your Mum and I don’t have a problem with it, as long as you let us know where you’re going.. Ditto drinking—don’t get hammered, and watch out that no one puts something in your glass when you’re not looking, but a few beers here and there is nothing to write home about. As for the smoking—I’d rather you didn’t, because I know you say it’s only social but that’s how habits form. I should know. And if you are going to, it’d be nice if you could replace the packets you steal from my stash.”

. “Point taken,” she says, squirming. “God,” she adds, sighing. “You make it so difficult for me to rebel. _Rude_.”

Dad laughs. Three weeks ago, she’d come home with her nose pierced and all Maman had said was “You will have to take zhat out before we go for Sunday lunch at your Grandmuzzer’s. She will accuse me of being a terrible parent because of it, and frankly I do not ’ave the time for zhat argument!” Dad had just told her not to worry, Grandma was still trying to get over the hole in his ear and so wouldn’t make it round to complaining about the one in her nose for at least another fifteen years, twenty if she was lucky.

“Well,” he says, “we’ll have to see if you turn out to be a total train-wreck in the end. But I could ban you from leaving the house after eight, make you drink nothing stronger than orange juice for the rest of your natural life and insist on measuring your skirts to check they’re hitting your knees but—”

“I’d kill you?”

“ _But_ I think you can be too strict as a parent. Look at Molly, she’s having to hide her new boyfriend from Uncle Percy because he doesn’t want her dating before she’s thirty!” Dad says.

“Oh, we’re conveniently forgetting the whole Ted-and-Victoire debacle, are we?” Dominique asks.

“Dom, kid,” he sighs, “I’ve no trouble with you having a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Or twelve, or none. It’s all good. But. If you end up snogging him or her so much it gets in the national news, we will _have words_. Then you’ll find out who’s strict and who isn’t!”

“I’ll be sure to rub that in Vic’s face next time I see her,” she says, shifting downwards so she’s curled in a ball on the sofa. She can feel her eyes closing, sleep coming for her, until—

“Wait a minute, how did you know about Molly’s boyfriend?!” she asks, sitting up.

Dad looks guilty for a second. “Your mother told me,” he says, “and _she_ got it from Auntie Ginny, who I think can charm a brick wall into telling her the gossip.” She lies back down. That sounds very likely. “So just remember, kid,” he adds. “You can pull the wool over my eyes, sometimes, but don’t _ever_ think your Aunt Ginny will let you get away with hiding something.”

Dominique laughs sleepily. “You won’t say anything to Uncle Percy about him, will you?”

“Of course not,” Dad says. There’s a long pause, and she thinks he might have fallen asleep, until he adds softly, “But I have been introducing him to the idea slowly, by taking him to the pub to talk about how truly _terrible_ it is when your beautiful baby daughters grow up to do things like have boyfriends, or become wonderful human beings.”

She smiles to herself.

The sofa shifts as Dad stands up, and he tucks the blanket in around her. “Go to sleep, Dom,” he says, kissing her forehead.

She does.


End file.
